Cleanse
by smalld1171
Summary: Some stains can never be washed clean. Dean angst ahead! Rated T for some minor swear words.
1. Chapter 1

**Cleanse**

**Some stains can never be washed clean.**

_A/N: Hello to any and all who have stumbled upon this story either by accident or design. I have been off the writing grid for quite some time and was feeling a bit desperate to write something, anything! So... I wrote this in one sitting without any edits, so it may not be the most pretty thing but I hope it will be a catalyst to get my writing brain working again. I have a lot of unfinished stories floating around but this story will have a total of two chapters, the second of which I plan to have posted within the next two weeks. I hope any who read will enjoy. Thanks._

**Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING!**

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The hunt may be over, but the damage has been done; the spirit had managed to claim one last victim and Sam sighs deeply, knowing all too well to whom the dagger of blame has naturally, albeit incorrectly, been thrown.

Dean.

Sam swallows thickly as the image of his brother flutters across his mind; of Dean holding the still warm body of the young woman, voice quivering as he eked out an unheard 'sorry'; as gentle, bloodied fingertips slid her lifeless eyes closed. His brother stood then, seething and shaking; fury and hatred skimming along the taut muscles of his frame; rapid breaths had gushed from his lips like the bull that could now only see the colour red.

It unnerved Sam, the rapidity of the transformation he witnessed; that Dean underwent as his demeanor instantly changed from sorrowful to murderous in the blink of an eye. The older Winchesters blood splattered hands, face and clothing made him look more like the perpetrator of the grisly crime rather than the man who tried and fought so hard to stop it. Gone was the former glint of moisture in his eyes; glazed over and dark, their previous sorrow morphed into intense and unbridled loathing. Consumed with his new mission, nothing else has mattered, nothing else existed in Dean's world but the promise of destruction; of the revenge he would now exact on the unnatural thing that had refused to stay dead.

The adrenaline his sibling's exhausted body held onto, to get the job done; that fed the rage and guilt and pain not so long ago quickly evaporated the moment the spirit ignited and vanished like mist before them, the ferocity of Dean the hunter replaced by the rarely unleashed frailty of Dean the man. Hands that had strained with purpose as the grave was dug; that shot with precision and efficiency as the thing flickered into existence along the perimeter; that plucked the lighter out of Sam's grip so that he alone would be the one to finish the deed, now tremble and blindly grab at the headstone for support.

No words are spoken as the brothers stand there; as Sam glances over and watches dull, blank eyes stare into the flames below.

Foregoing the usual ritual of covering up the grave for the more urgent mission of getting his brother away from the scene and this hunt as quickly as possible, Sam gathers up their equipment and shoves it haphazardly into the duffel before gently prodding his still silent brother to move.

"Time to go, Dean."

"Yeah."

It's only one word, but it's more reaction than Sam has gotten from his older sibling since he barreled past him in haste to exit the woman's home. Sam had followed quickly, after receiving no response to the calling of his brother's name, getting into the car just as Dean slammed on the gas pedal and the tires rained debris and dust along the asphalt in their wake. So he won't push right now, won't attempt a long conversation, at least not until they are out of the graveyard and in a more hospitable location. He will have to be satisfied with that one small word; with Dean finally acknowledging his presence, and he will gladly take it.

"Alright, I've got the gear, let's get back to the motel."

"Okay."

Sam grabs the bag and begins the trek back to the not so distant Impala just outside the cemetery gates. There is an uneasy clench in Sam's gut as he eyes the scene around the car more closely; it is parked at an askew angle, with the driver's door still open, and the sight cements the already obvious knowledge that Dean is definitely not fine. Sam's mind works a mile a minute, busy trying to come up with a plan on how he can help Dean deal with this crapfest of a hunt without pushing too hard or giving his brother cause or reason to opt instead for the patented silent treatment when a topic he doesn't want to discuss comes up.

Sam sighs, knowing his brother has been running on fumes for the past week as the death toll continued to rise and the brothers continued to chase their tails to catch a break on what was killing folks in the small town.

The lines of exhaustion had crept relentlessly onto his brother's features over the past few days; evidence of the conclusion Sam had already come to. Thinking about it more carefully now, Sam can't recall the last time he had actually seen Dean sleep, his older brother always up before him and staying up past him to check, recheck, and probably recheck the facts in the case and what they may have missed. Another sigh escapes him as he wonders if Dean has actually managed to rest at all during this whole thing. Rest, Sam decides, is priority number one for his brother.

Lost in his thoughts, Sam is more than halfway back to the car before he realizes how silent the air around him is; no heavy footsteps behind or beside him, no second set of boots crunching in unison with his along the gravel of the path. Shit. He chides himself, so preoccupied with his own musings about Dean that he didn't notice until now that the source of his concern is nowhere in his vicinity.

Turning back towards the graveyard, his brow lifts and he gets a knot in his stomach when he spots his brother now kneeling above the grave, mesmerized as he watches the now barely visible flames; they effectively cast an ominous glow on his brother's ragged features. Sam heads back towards his brother and figures maybe Dean's taking a moment to gather himself, but then scoffs softly to himself at that wishful thought; it's much more likely that Dean's lack of anything resembling sleep, his survival on coffee alone during this hellish week, and the fact he watched helplessly as someone was invisibly blood-letted right in front of him has culminated in this deceptively calm scene. Dean is starting to falter and succumb to the crushing strain of his body and mind, and Sam will not allow him to take that journey alone.

Sam approaches quickly but quietly, the fact that his brother doesn't tune in to his arrival screaming out to him and setting off alarm bells in his head. Definitely not fine, not at all. He crouches down so he matches Dean's position and only then notices that he is no longer staring at the fading fire, but rather at his hands.

Maybe it's his nagging fatigue that leads him to stare like it was the first time he'd seen blood before, or maybe it's something else, but he finds himself unable to look away, his eyes drawn with a kind of macabre wonder at the crimson polka dot pattern that speckles his skin. Sure, it might be more than a few indiscriminate droplets that have managed to leech onto his flesh but still, it should have been easy enough to wipe off on the fabric of his jeans, or his jacket, but he can't bring himself to do it. How many times has he just rubbed the blood away; smeared it across his clothing to be absorbed into the fibers, to be forgotten while he just carried on, to the next job, the next hunt. How much blood has he helped spill; how much damage had he been responsible for; how many lives has he ruined, without a second thought.

"Dean? You alright, man?"

Sam's voice brings him back and he shakes his head slightly, brushing his soiled hand lightly on his pants, to try and erase the source of his stupor as he stands up to face his brother, patented smirk snapping into place In earnest.

"Yeah, I'm good." Dean's eyes close for a brief moment before a mumbled "Another one bites the dust, hey Sammy?" escapes his lips.

Sam catches his brother's eyes dart to his hands and his stomach plummets as he internally wonders which 'another one' Dean is referring to. He can't help but tilt his head, trying to size up his brother's mood and more to the point, his mental state.

"I'm fine, really, just a little tired, I guess. Let's get the show on the road, last one to the car is the last one who gets to shower. And I..." another furtive glance to his hands, "I think I need a shower."

Before Sam can respond Dean walks past him briskly and heads to the car, unconsciously rubbing his hand on his jacket this time as he goes. Resigned to the fact their conversation is over, Sam feels a tinge of deja vu as he follows his brother's path moments later.

Dean almost looks manic by the time Sam meets up with him at the car, his movements erratic and his eyes moving rapidly but not seeming to focus on anything. Sam takes a step closer and Dean counters with a step back, his hands now compulsively scraping against the fabric of his clothing.

"Dude, you _sure_ you're okay?"

Dean doesn't look at him but vocalizes what seems to be an urgent request, even though the volume is kept low.

"Water. Yeah, yeah, I need water."

"Okay, hold on, there's some in the car."

Sam leans into the interior, grabs the bottle from the seat and opens it before handing it over to his fidgeting brother. Dean grabs the water with a lot more force than Sam thinks is necessary but things get even more disconcerting when the older sibling doesn't drink the liquid but pours it onto his hands, letting the bottle fall to the earth with a thud before earnestly rubbing them together with excessive zeal.

When Dean begins to scrape his palms with his nails to try and get the remaining crimson patches dislodged from his skin, Sam takes gentle hold of his brother's wrists.

"Dean, it's okay now. Let's go."

"Fine. Just...this shit's hard to get off, Sam, you know. Right? Blood? It's a bitch to get clean."

Dean dries his hands on his shirt and hops into the driver's seat before Sam can utter one word.

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**TBC... Thanks for stopping by! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Hello and welcome back. Not sure how I feel about this chapter, I haven't had much time to write so it is kind of short and perhaps a little boring. Having said that, there will be more chapters to come. Thanks to any who have a look._**

**_Also, this story is dedicated to my good friend, gr8read. I hope this will tide you over until I can get back to writing more regularly ;)_**

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Sam sighs deeply as the opportunity of taking charge of the drive back to their motel quickly crumbles; the slam of the driver's door and Dean's voice filtering out from the confines of the car a testament to the fact.

"Um, how about while I'm still young, _Samantha_."

The words themselves are typical; Dean's patented brand of sarcasm mixed with humor, but the delivery and inflection held within them is all wrong. There is no lilt in the pronunciation, no chuckle to accompany the irony that it has been _Sam_ who has done the waiting. No, these words are dead panned and lifeless; like a stone dropped haphazardly into the water, instead of skimming the surface with finesse before gently disappearing beneath.

"C'mon, Sam. What's wrong, break a nail?"

Sam keeps his mouth firmly shut to stop any knee-jerk comments from escaping; won't be goaded into taking the nicely laid out in front of him bait. Sam hates it; the facade of it, the falsity of the words that are spewed only out of habit and routine. It's an automated Dean defense mechanism and it does exactly the opposite; meant to create a shield from the chaos swirling around him, this particular diversion tactic, used to quell any misgivings about his well being is paper thin at best, and serves to breed even more concern about witnessing yet another display of his self destructive streak.

Hearing the rumble of the engine as Dean brings the car to life, Sam resigns himself to the inevitability that _is_ his brother; battle-fatigued, running on fumes, head not quite screwed on right at the moment, Dean will once again forego a much needed tour in the passenger seat and stubbornly take the helm.

Sam is thankful the motel is only about an hour away as he folds his frame into the Impala and catches sight of Dean, looking somehow worse than he did in the two minutes before. There is a host of warning flags slapping Sam directly in the face; increased paleness of the skin, accentuated and eerily marked by a jagged pattern of dried blood; constant clenching of the jaw that looks forceful enough to be causing pain; the fact that Dean's face exhibits nothing, seems frozen and unaware, sends a small shiver down Sam's spine.

The sight of his stubborn, strong willed brother like this is something Sam will never get used to; is disturbing enough in it's wrongness, but it's the pervasive scratching sound, it's tempo increasing the longer they remain idle in the car, that makes Sam swallow in response. Dean is right beside him but he may as well be miles away, the absentminded movement of his free hand on his jeans, then the steering wheel and even the console not seeming to register even in his own mind.

Might as well give common sense a try.

"You look wiped, man."

The strained chuckle and small shake of his head that comes from Dean at Sam's matter of fact statement urges the younger brother on; that maybe Dean will concede to what he knows to be true and relinquish his hold of the wheel.

Sam waits expectantly as Dean starts to shift slightly in his seat, his eyes closing as a hand reaches to pinch the bridge of his nose before tracking it's way down the surface of his haggard face. Sam waits him out; hopes the combination of exhaustion, frustration and the fogginess in his head will trump his unrealistic demand to always be in control.

Dean shifts again and Sam grabs the handle on his door, ready to jump out as soon as his brother makes his move to leave the driver's seat. To Sam's dismay, the moment never arrives; Dean doesn't look at him, doesn't move to extricate himself from the car, but rather looks out towards the graveyard.

He whispers into the night, the elements of disgust, bitterness and self-loathing threading their way like a twisted tapestry into his voice.

"Yeah, well at least I'm still breathing, right? Lucky me, get to live and hunt another day."

Not good.

"Why don't you let me drive?"

Dean's eyes don't follow his voice, but by his intake of breath Sam knows he heard the question, and also knows too well the scripted response that is about to depart his lips.

"Nah, I'm good."

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**_TBC... Thanks for stopping by :)_**


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